


Great and small.

by Waywarder



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - Human, Farmer Crowley - Freeform, Inspired by James Herriot, M/M, Veterinarian Aziraphale, so many animals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29859705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: Doctor Aziraphale Fell is Tadfield's beloved veterinary surgeon. Perceived as somewhat odd by the rest of the village, the good doctor is largely content with the companionship of his animal patients.That is, until one particular former Tadfield resident comes home to his family's farm on the heels of a terrible tragedy.Inspired by James Herriot's Animal Stories.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 96
Collections: GO-Events Book Fest





	1. Prologue

_new year's eve, 1940._

It was the end of a new beginning (goodness, I hope that makes sense) and the end of anything always necessitated something of a party in Tadfield and so, naturally, _polite society_ was all aflutter with truly horrible news:

“Did you hear about the Crowleys’?”

“Dear me, what a terrible tragedy.”

“And, to think, that boy of theirs… what was his name?”

“Anthony.”

“Oh, yes, of course. _Anthony_. Away in London when it happened.”

“Of course. Dreadful.”

Doctor Aziraphale Fell, as a habit, did not much enjoy village gossip. Not that he didn’t appreciate a good story, mind you, though he preferred his to star characters who could be gently set back down upon the coffee table and left to their own devices for a few hours. No harm done in that, was there?

As another habit, Aziraphale did not particularly care for lavish village parties- with the notable exception of lavish party _food_ \- but there was something about the quiet pleasure of any invitation:

_Yes. Thank you for your impact on our lives. Please come sip something bubbly and tolerate so much chatter and ultimately spend the evening with our cats hiding away in the library._

Which, of course, was where the good Dr. Fell was headed now.

There was plenty to say about Tadfield, but what Aziraphale Fell liked best to say was, “Oh, what a marvelous abundance of _creatures_.” It was a small farming community and so the fields and dirt paths and gardens and gravel roads were constantly buzzing or squawking or mewling or hissing or barking with the sounds of animals. They were Aziraphale’s patients, each and every one of them.

All creatures great and small.

It was one of the smaller creatures whom Aziraphale sought now. 

His hosts for the evening- the Dowlings, the richest family in Tadfield- had recently become the caretakers of a surly black kitten by the name of Warlock. He had been a Christmas gift to Mrs. Dowling, because, in Aziraphale’s limited experience, unimaginative men were always gifting things small and fuzzy to their beloveds at Christmastime. Aziraphale’s own home was a bit cluttered by the now-grown and no-longer-wanted holiday puppies and kittens and, goodness, the _Easter bunnies_. Aziraphale was grateful for his pleasant relationship with the town’s foremost carrot farmer. 

And so, uninterested in human gossip as he was, Aziraphale wandered off to where he suspected the little kitten might be hiding. 

To his surprise, someone else had already taken up residence there.

Sitting in the Dowlings’ extravagant, quiet library, stroking a scruffy black kitten, looking not at all scruffy himself in an all-black get-up, was a man. He was petting the kitten softly, which was the most valuable first impression Aziraphale could offer. Enthusiasm for the presence of a kitten should never result in one petting said-kitten too firmly or harshly. In the stolen silence of the library, only the contented rumble of Warlock’s purr could be heard. 

He- this stranger- was tall. He was sitting… well, could we call it sitting, really? Aziraphale couldn’t recall having ever encountered a more languid human being. He seemed rather poured into the chair he occupied, a magnificent ink blot, somehow still illuminated in the dark room. It might have been the hair. Swept back off the stranger’s forehead, his hair was the sort of red anyone only ever saw in particularly wonderful autumn leaves. 

Aziraphale felt an immediate kinship of sorts about the hair. His own- practically white in its lightness- had always stood out oddly in the sea of browns and black and auburns and “natural blondes.” Once it had deeply mattered to him to blend in, but his starlit hair stubbornly refused to cooperate.

Because, yes, he was invited to well-to-do New Year’s fetes in the village and that was rather lovely, but he knew the whispers that floated around about him as well:

_“Oy, he’s sort of a strange duck, that Dr. Fell, isn’t he?”_

_“Did he have a wife once? He must have, certainly. He’s no spring chicken anymore.”_

(Alright, perhaps there weren’t as many bird metaphors as Aziraphale remembered.)

Kind, strange, unmarried, white-haired Dr. Aziraphale Fell: the town veterinary surgeon. 

Staring at an autumn-haired stranger in a library on New Year’s Eve.

“You seem to have quite a way with young Master Warlock,” Aziraphale dared to say out loud as he decided, yes, he would still take a step into the library.

The stranger jumped in his awkward seat, provoking a disgruntled mewl from Warlock. The kitten scurried away instantly and only then did Aziraphale feel appropriately odd to be alone with a stranger.

“And you seem to have quite a way of sneaking up on people,” drawled the stranger as he got to his feet. He wasn’t all that much taller than Aziraphale was, but he _seemed_ awfully taller. He was like a shadow.

“Terribly sorry,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t usually find anyone else sneaking away to spend time with the pets.”

“I like the pets,” the shadow-stranger grumbled. “Not so much bloody gossip.”

“Goodness, yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “It seems all anyone can do tonight is gossip about the fate of the poor Crowleys.”

“What are they saying?”

“Oh, the usual,” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “‘Such a pity about the fire. What a perfectly nice couple. Too bad about the awful son.’ You know how it goes.”

“Mmm,” the stranger murmured, lips tight.

“Listen to me, though,” Aziraphale forced a laugh out of his throat, feeling as though he’d already done the wrong thing. “Gossiping myself now, aren’t I?”

“‘S not like there’s anything else to do in his dreadful village,” the stranger remarked, lifting his jaw just enough to make Aziraphale feel even shorter, smaller by comparison.

Aziraphale frowned at the comment. “Well, there’s plenty to do. Why, we’ve a lovely village square and there’s a perfectly nice amateur dramatics group here and there’s the spring festival-”

The stranger interrupted him with a groan. “Of course. Amateur dramatics and spring festivals. I ought to have known.”

“You’re new here,” Aziraphale deduced.

“Clever, you are.”

“May I ask where you’ve been until now?” _Be polite, Dr. Fell. Always._

“London,” the stranger sighed almost wistfully. 

**** _(If, I, the author, might interject: please understand that Dr. Fell was really quite clever. One doesn’t become a vet surgeon by accident, you know. But, well, he had been into the champagne a little already earlier in the evening and you must understand that he was not in the habit of entertaining mysterious strangers in gorgeous libraries. We must forgive him for missing certain clues, mustn’t we?)_

“And how did you manage to secure an invitation to this party?” Aziraphale sniffed. He worked hard for his invitations, delivering foals and calves and treating sick dogs and cats. Who was this elegant stranger to-

“The Dowlings knew my parents,” the stranger took a step closer to Aziraphale, as though he rather enjoyed being too-tall and a little intimidating. Aziraphale didn’t allow his breath to hitch at this new nearness. Instead, he stood his ground. He’d dealt with ill cart horses before, he wasn’t frightened of a lanky stranger in a nice suit. 

“Aren’t you a little old to be hiding from your parents at a holiday party?”

“My parents,” he ground the word out with something like a hiss. “Are dead.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear it,” Aziraphale answered. Death was an unfortunate but constant part of the life of a veternarian. He didn’t feel uncomfortable discussing it, only sad. 

“Anthony Crowley,” the stranger continued, not offering his hand. “‘The awful son,’ as some have called me.”

_Ah._

For that, Aziraphale did not have a ready, sincere reply.

“That’s what I thought,” Anthony Crowley sneered. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Wouldn’t want to go around staining any more precious reputations by association, now.”

“Reputations are often misleading,” Aziraphale pointed out, because he truly believed it. “Constructed by the bored in an effort to have something interesting to ponder.”

“What if it’s all true?” Crowley asked.

Again, as a habit, Aziraphale didn’t go for village gossip. But it had been impossible over the years to not hear at least some of what was said about the Crowleys’ boy:

_Flash bastard._

_Thinks he’s too good for where he comes from._

_Cavorting around at those absurd city parties._

_Breaking his poor folks’ heart._

“I don’t believe it,” Aziraphale said. “ _For there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so._ ”

A crooked, toothy smile stole over Crowley’s face. “Are you part of the amateur dramatics society then? Tell them to put up _Twelfth Night_ instead of _Hamlet_ , if you’d be so kind.” 

“I’m the village veterinary surgeon,” Aziraphale exclaimed, feeling more and more ridiculous with each word. “So, I suspect we should see rather a lot of each other.”

“Not if I do my job correctly,” Crowley said over his shoulder as he sauntered out of the library. “I did grow up here, remember? I can take care of a bloody farm.”

Aziraphale didn’t remember. He’d come to Tadfield later in his own life. And he could hardly imagine the impeccably dressed fellow before him on his knees in the dirt of a well-tended field. Before he could say anything of the sort, Lord preserve him:

Anthony Crowley offered him a little mocking salute. “Happy New Year, Doctor.”

And he was gone. 

With the door slightly more ajar, Aziraphale could begin to hear the countdown to midnight. To a new year, to new possibilities.

_Not to new friendships_ , _I suppose,_ he thought without much bitterness. It had been his fault, after all. It usually was. 

Aziraphale sunk into the seat previously occupied by Mr. Crowley and scrubbed a little at his weary face. Sometimes human interaction felt so draining. 

Warlock crept out from behind a bookcase and hopped his way into Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale’s mouth twitched in a smile. Animals did always make everything at least a little better.

“Well, how was I to know who he was?” Aziraphale asked the kitten as he scratched softly at the small thing’s soft head. 

Warlock mewed in response.

“Oh, you’re no help at all.”

_Mew_.

“Yes, Happy New Year to you as well, dear boy,” Aziraphale murmured softly.

It was the first fresh moment of 1941 and Aziraphale did not yet know that he wouldn’t see Anthony Crowley again until the spring.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley has to swallow his pride and ask for help on behalf of one of his animal charges. 
> 
> Inspired by _Herbert, the Orphaned Lamb._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: We've got some animals in distress this chapter, friends! Everyone makes it out okay, but if descriptions of animals in pain makes you sad, I would sit this one out. Not every chapter here will be like that, but we are dealing with the work of a vet surgeon so sometimes animals will be ill or hurt. Take care of your heart!

_April, 1941._

Anthony Crowley awoke, as he sometimes did in those days, with a great splash of cold water right to the face.

(He didn’t even flinch this time.)

“Right, right, good morning,” he grumbled instead, shutting his eyes tighter against the icy droplets cascading down his face.

“And, as always, a very good morning to you, _sir_ ,” came the familiar, frustrating voice of the water bearer.

“I hate it when you call me that.”

“And I hate it when you sleep past noon and leave all the morning chores to me. We’ve all got problems, haven’t we?”

Crowley groaned. He smacked his lips and tasted stale whiskey and staler breath. He felt crunchy hay prickling at his back through his dampened shirt. He smelled _animals_ and all the charming scents that accompanied them. He heard them, too: the air thrummed with the sounds of barnyard life. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw a young woman in coveralls frowning down at him. 

Morning (afternoon? Fuck) as usual at the Crowley farm. 

“Right then,” Crowley cracked his neck. “What’s on the infernal schedule for today?”

“Well, fun story,” explained the waterbearer, one hand on her hips and the water pail dangling threateningly from her other hand. “You have to call him today, Crowley.”

It took a second longer than Crowley would have ever admitted to realize exactly who she was talking about. As soon as it dawned on him, though, Crowley shut his eyes again and rolled back over to burrow into the hay. 

“Pride is a sin, you know,” she pointed out. 

“Oh, fuck off.”

(Hello again, dear reader. Let’s fill you in just a bit, alright? Splendid.)

The only child of Rafe and Louise Crowley, Anthony had never quite fit in around the village of Tadfield. From as far back as he could remember, he was always getting into trouble. He asked too many questions, said his teachers, said the priests, said anyone in town who had something to say (which was everyone). 

His parents encouraged his questions for a while. They seemed proud even to have a clever, curious son. Mr. Crowley boasted that Anthony was destined for a grand, wonderful life, perhaps that of a scholar, he were just so _clever,_ understand? And Louise beamed over her apple-haired boy. She kissed his red hair after school and snuck him apple tarts before suppertime. And Anthony never cared much for muck or dirt, but he did like to take his apple tart out to the barn and tell the cows about his day. 

Things were pretty swell until Crowley finally asked The Question. And there was no more boasting after that. No more kisses to his head or apple tarts pressed into his palms. Only the cows bothered to hear him anymore after that, and they never had much to say back. 

So, when Anthony had been old enough, he’d gallivanted off to London, vowing never to return. _A victimless crime_ , he’d thought. _Who would ever miss me?_

But there are things we can’t always predict, aren’t there? 

Fires, for instance. 

Crowley had awoken in the dead of night to a phone call. 

_“Do you have any bloody idea what time it is?” It’s hard to sleepily snarl, but Crowley managed to pull it off._

_“Dearie, something awful’s happened.”_

_Crowley shot up out of bed at the sound of a voice he hadn’t heard in nearly twenty years._

_“Tracy?”_

_“I’m so sorry, love.”_

_She didn’t need to say much else. There are a limited number of reasons for a midnight telephone call from your estranged home town, aren’t there?_

_“Someone will need to look after the farm, dear.”_

And so Crowley had packed his expensive London things that very night and gone back to a home that hadn’t been his home for two decades and that hadn’t felt like home for far longer than that. 

It had spread quickly, they had assured him. His folks had probably slept through the whole thing. Probably hadn’t hurt at all. And Crowley didn’t even nod. Just stared ahead at the ashes of a life he felt he’d never really known.

The actual Crowley house was about as ruined as ruined could be, so Crowley alternated between a room at Tracy’s little inn and just plain getting too drunk and falling asleep in the hay of the barn. The barn and all the animals had been far enough away from the house itself that they’d managed to make it out unscathed. 

“Come on, Crowley, get up,” Anathema extended her hand. “This is embarrassing, even for you.”

Crowley accepted her hand and groaned his way to standing. 

“The war effort thanks you,” Crowley drawled once he was on his feet.

Anathema had just turned up one day, bright-eyed and determined to help. “Land Girls,” they were called-- young women working on farms while the war raged on. Crowley had grumbled about it at first (and then at second and at third), but she hadn’t seemed willing to take “no” for an answer. Crowley finally settled on the reasoning that her presence made less work for him. 

“There’s something wrong with one of the ewes,” Anathema explained.

Crowley dragged a hand across his damp face, wiping the hair out of his eyes. “So, fix her.”

“That’s what I’m telling you, Crowley,” Anathema said, eyes narrowing in her frustration. “I can’t fix her. Which means you definitely can’t fix her. We need to call Dr. Fell right away.”

Crowley winced at the name. Anathema sighed and rolled her eyes again. “It was one bad party nearly five months ago and you were probably drunk. Can you just grow up and call him, please?”

Crowley hadn’t been drunk at the party. He’d been perfectly sober and had _still_ managed to feel something as foolish as hope over the imaginary promise of Doctor Aziraphale Fell. 

Crowley licked the disappointment over his first meeting with Dr. Fell like a forever-fresh wound. He’d conveniently left this part of the story out when he’d drunkenly described it to Anathema, but he’d been so… something like hopeful when Dr. Fell walked into that library on New Year’s Eve. It’s not like Crowley had expected to find any friends back in Tadfield, but, then, Dr. Fell hadn’t been there when he’d left town, had he? Had no reason to already have an opinion formed. And there had been something so peculiar and kind about his eyes. Something so gentle and fond in his voice as he asked about the little kitten. And, yeah, fine, Crowley’s treacherous heart might have twisted a little each time he remembered it. 

Because Dr. Fell was ultimately just like the rest of them. Already had his mind made up about Anthony Crowley. And Crowley didn’t need help from any of them. 

His face must have looked as made up as his mind because Anathema just sighed and said, “Come on, then. See for yourself.”

They left the barn and wandered down to a row of makeshift pens constructed from straw bales. Anathema led Crowley to the biggest enclosure where several sheep… did whatever sheep did. Anathema hopped nimbly over the straw bale. Crowley grit his teeth as he followed suit. Sheep and straw and stink and too much bloody sunshine. This is exactly what he’d hoped to avoid for the rest of his fucking life.

Anathema approached one of the ewes, shushing the animal softly as she got closer.

“It’s alright, girl,” Anathema stroked the ewe’s fuzzy back. She turned around to Crowley. “How’s your stomach this morning?”

He frowned. “Fine, why-”

Oh. That was why.

And Crowley did fight the urge to retch as Anathema lifted the ewe’s woolly tail to reveal the head of a lamb. Only the poor bastard was hardly recognizable as a lamb anymore. It’s head had greatly swollen, eyes barely puffy slits and an engorged tongue lolling from its mouth. Even Crowley had to accept this little lamb was beyond his or Anathema’s skill. 

“What’s the matter with him?” Crowley asked quietly. 

“I don’t know. Call him,” Anathema said. And there was no eye roll or bucket of water to the face this time. Just a tenderness of voice only ever reserved for sad little lambs.

Crowley dared to make as much eye contact as he could with the small, helpless thing. 

_Fuck_.

***

“Oh, dear. You called me in just the nick of time, I’m happy to report.”

Crowley nearly bit off his own tongue in an effort to fight all the snide retorts swimming his brain. Doctor Fell was examining the ewe now as Anathema prepared a bucket of clean, soapy water. Crowley’s fingers itched. He hated feeling useless. 

_When was the last time you were at all useful?_ Sneered a hateful little voice in Crowley’s mind. 

“Look, Doctor-”

“Oh,” he smiled politely. “Please call me Aziraphale.”

_Aziraphale._

“Sure,” Crowley said slowly. “Aziraphale. What are his chances?”

“I’m going to need to get a closer look,” Aziraphale said, blue eyes fixed on his patient. And before Crowley knew what was happening, Aziraphale began to remove his jacket and set it down neatly on one of the straw bales. He knelt down to the ground as he began to roll up his shirtsleeves. Crowley felt impressed at how dignified Aziraphale seemed to be, even here at the prospect of sticking his hand inside of a sheep.

Anathema returned to the enclosure with a pail of soapy water and Aziraphale set to work washing his hands. Crowley… stood there.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said kindly to Anathema,

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Anathema answered. “I hope there’s still enough time.” With that, she flashed her eyes up at Crowley. 

He bit his tongue harder. And then he- fuck- shut his eyes as Aziraphale dried his hands and returned his attention to the ewe. Crowley knew it was sort of stupid, but he’d always hated watching anyone- his parents, Anathema, now Aziraphale- take care of the animals when they were hurt or sick. It felt to him that even animals deserved a little privacy in such an undignified position. His guts rolled against the little worried baas of the ewe.

_It’s okay,_ Crowley wanted to tell her. _He’s smart. He’ll help you._

“Well, he’s alive,” Aziraphale reported. “But he’s in a great deal of distress, the poor thing.”

“Can you help him?” Crowley asked, his voice hoarser than he’d intended.

Aziraphale looked up at him and fuck, his eyes were serious. And blue. And fuck. Sort of lovely?

“I will do everything I can.”

Crowley nodded. 

Anathema held the ewe steady as Aziraphale worked. Crowley knew he was staring. It was a rather arresting image: Doctor Fell- Aziraphale- on his knees in the earth, the spring sunlight glinting off the light hairs of his forearms as he steadily and gently drew a new life into the world. Finally, after what could have been a moment or six thousand years, the breathing, bleating little lamb lay safely in the straw. 

There was no one there to witness it but the three of them and yet it felt like a little miracle all the same. 

Crowley kept staring. 

The reverie of the moment was broken when a quick little dart of fleece made its way under Aziraphale’s elbow and promptly went for the udder of the ewe before him. She shucked him off and turned her attention to licking and cleaning her newborn. The interloper bleated and bumped his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“Well, hello,” Aziraphale smiled. “Who is this fine fellow?”

“Oh, that’s Herbert,” Anathema answered. “His mother didn’t really take a shine to him at birth, so he sort of fends for himself.”

“Hello, Herbert,” Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley kept staring. At Aziraphale and Herbert now. At the man’s easy affection for the scrawny little orphan before him. 

With a final pat to Herbert’s head, Aziraphale got to his feet and collected his jacket. 

“Well,” he said. “Off to my next patient, I suppose.”

_Of course._

“I’ll walk you up the path,” Crowley heard himself say. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale beamed. “How lovely of you.”

Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets as Aziraphale continued to gather his things. Crowley followed the doctor’s lingering gaze to the ewe and her little lamb.

“He’ll be standing in a jiffy,” Aziraphale said and his voice was thick with… was it satisfaction? Crowley liked it, whatever it was. 

“Thank you,” Crowley said just a little later as he indeed found himself walking Aziraphale up the little dirt road to the gate of the farm. “For coming.”

“Thank you for calling,” Aziraphale said, seriously. He stopped at the gate and threaded his own fingers together, something like worry clouding his blue eyes now. 

“Something wrong?” Crowley asked.

“I can’t stop thinking about our first meeting, I confess,” Aziraphale said in a hurry. 

_Neither can I,_ Crowley didn’t say.

“I know I must have made such an awful impression on you,” Aziraphale went on. “I hate to think I made you feel unwelcome here.”

Crowley shrugged. “I felt unwelcome anyway. No fault of yours.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Aziraphale said, lifting his gaze to meet Crowley’s. 

“I don’t remember you,” Crowley said like an apology. “From before.”

Aziraphale smiled a soft smile. “I wasn’t here before.”

“Where do you come from, then?”

And Aziraphale’s soft smile shifted into something sad and Crowley regretted his stupid question instantly. Questions. Always questions getting him into trouble. 

“Perhaps a story for another day,” Aziraphale answered. “You will let me know how the lambs are doing, won’t you?”

Crowley promised. “I will.”

“And you’ll call if any of the rest of my patients needs me?”

Crowley ran a nervous, skinny hand through his hair. “Ah. Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale said. “I should hate to think any unpleasantness between us might negatively impact any of your charges.”

“No unpleasantness,” Crowley said. “Not anymore.”

“Shall we start over then?”

“Sure.”

And they stood for a moment, looking at each other, suddenly awkward in deciding which of them ought to extend his hand first. 

It ended up being Crowley.

“Anthony Crowley,” he introduced himself. “Probably as bad as everyone says, I’m sorry to report.”

Aziraphale took his hand and Crowley marvelled at the warm strength in Aziraphale’s fingers.

“Aziraphale Fell,” Aziraphale responded. “Probably as peculiar as everyone says.”

“Are you?” Crowley asked. “I hadn’t heard.”

“I submit that no truly great veterinarian is without their share of peculiarities,” Aziraphale said, his hand still clasped in Crowley’s.

Crowley grinned at that. Aziraphale continued:

“And I submit that no friend of dear Herbert’s is as bad as anyone says. I often find animals to be a better judge of character than humans.”

Crowley withdrew his hand, his fingers suddenly too warm. 

“Well,” Because it was the end of this little moment, wasn’t it? “Good bye.”

“Until next time, Mr. Crowley.”

_Next time._

Aziraphale started his walk up the path and Crowley lingered at the gate for longer than he wanted to explain to himself. When he finally ambled back down to the ewes, Anathema was sitting in the enclosure, petting a fleecy back. She smiled up at him.

“Stop that,” he frowned. “It’s strange coming from you.”

“Was that so bad, Crowley?”

He answered by flopping on his back onto a straw bale and letting out a great burst of breath. Had he been holding his breath? Fuck. For how long? Fuck. Why?

Little Herbert hopped up onto the bale beside Crowley and rested his soft little head on his ankle. Without thinking about it too hard, Crowley let his hand drift down by his side to stroke the lamb. 

“Interesting,” Anathema murmured.

“What is?” Crowley asked the just-beginning-to-darken sky. 

“Maybe nothing yet,” Anathema admitted.

“Right,” Crowley grumbled in assent. “Probably nothing.”

But his heart beat against his chest as though it was fighting to escape his useless body and ascend to the heavens. And the sheep bleated and cried around him and the air smelled like primroses and the quiet promise of spring.

Evening as usual at the Crowley farm. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'm very excited to go on this adventure with you.


End file.
